


Beautiful

by babybrotherdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Body Worship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 17:25:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12237375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: John never misses a chance to count his blessings, and to let those blessings know just how important they are.





	Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a thing that I wrote on a craving, but it ended up being longish so I figured I would post it here?
> 
> No real warnings to speak of besides the obvious when it comes to the ship. Sleepy body worship and some inappropriate touching. Stanford era and whatever.
> 
> (There was zero proofreading done. Sorry?)

“It’s okay, Dean, it’s- it’s okay. Look at me, sweetheart. Right here.”

Dean always looks so vulnerable like this, laid out on his back and struggling to make eye contact. It used to worry John, sometimes, make him think Dean was scared of him, that he was hurting, that he was reluctant- it’s only now, years later, that he understands how shy his boy really is. Especially in moments like this.

They’re alone. Just the two of them in the motel room; too early to wake up and too late to rest any longer. They’re both sleep-warm, and Dean still looks drowsy in the lamp’s soft lighting, eyelashes casting delicate shadows over his cheekbones as he looks somewhere else. John could stare for hours, he thinks, maybe days, especially now that there’s nobody else here to see. Nobody but him and his beautiful boy, the two of them together in the bed furthest from the door, awake in the wee hours of the morning.

Alone.

Not that it’s a novelty, these days; Sam’s departure still stings with every passing second, but John knows that it hurt Dean more than it hurt him. The two of them were always so damn _close_ , closer than brothers were ever supposed to be, and with Sam going off to school and leaving them behind…

Dean hasn’t told him either way, but John has a quiet suspicion that Sam invited him along. It was never one-sided between them, and for how awful Sam thought their lives were, there’s no way he didn’t try to take his big brother with him to live a better one in California.

Selfishly, he’s damn glad that Dean stayed behind.

There’s no question that it hurt him, though- cut real damn deep, if the way he’s changed is of any indication. He’s quieter now, much of the time. Smiles less. Drinks more. It’s painful to watch the way the life has drained out of him, and perhaps worst of all is the way that he so obviously blames himself.

John has a feeling that it’s what makes the eye contact so hard.

“Right here.”

Still, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to make it better.

He shifts in his position, just enough that he can reach out and touch- brushes his fingertips along the curve of Dean’s jaw to watch him shiver and close his eyes. John’s sure he’ll never tire of this, of seeing how responsive his son is to simple tactility, and he curses himself for not figuring it out sooner. Neither of them are any good at talking about their feelings, about the gaping hole that Sam left behind, but this much- this much, John knows he can do.

John leans in close; close enough to hear Dean’s intake of breath when he leaves the faint imprint of a kiss on his boy’s temple. He lets his lips migrate after that, down along the curve of Dean’s cheekbone like he’ll be able to taste the cinnamon dust of his freckles if he tries. John can feel Dean’s eyes tracking him, and he’s tempted to look, but he doesn’t want to scare Dean away. Not now.

It’s impossible to resist Dean’s lips when he gets close, and John knows better than to try. They’re soft under his own, and he’s careful, this time, tender- just a chaste few seconds in which Dean’s hands find his arms, fingers curling all gentle around his biceps. Not pushing or pulling so much as just _holding_ ; it’s far from the first time Dean’s done this, a reflex that reminds John rather painfully of when he was just a baby, gripping anything and everything within his reach, and John- John thinks it’s a bit unconscious, these days, the search for an anchor, but he never says anything about it and he never tries to interfere. So he presses closer, just a fraction, and he lets the kiss linger a little bit longer, until Dean makes a tiny sound against his mouth and he breaks the contact, not pulling away any farther than that.

“Dad,” Dean mumbles, but he doesn’t say anything else, eyes still downcast. John watches him for a few seconds and then leans up to kiss his forehead. Wishes he could lay here forever with his little boy in his arms and make the rest of the world disappear; wishes that monsters weren’t real and that none of this needed to happen in the first place. Wishes that Sam were still here, and Mary, and that Dean could be safe and happy and surrounded by love the way that he deserves to be.

There’s nothing to be done for it now besides to try to make up for all those shortcomings, though. John’s far from a miracle-worker, but this much- this, where he presses his lips to Dean’s skin and tries to say all of the things that his boy needs to hear- this much is well-within his skillset.

Dean’s still holding onto him as he slides farther down the bed, his lips finding the pulse point at Dean’s throat and latching onto it, mostly just for the sound he knows it will elicit. Dean’s breathless little whine is worth it, more so with the way his grip tightens, and John smiles, just a little bit. Pulls up so he can catch the flush across his son’s cheeks, the wide eyes, the parted lips. Jesus.

“Always been too damn pretty,” John breathes out, and he cups Dean’s cheek in his hand, cradles it. Feels his heart thump painfully in his chest when Dean presses into the touch, turns towards it like it’s his salvation. John takes the chance and presses the pad of his thumb to Dean’s lower lip, strokes over it carefully. “God. Just like-”

Cuts himself off. Talking about Mary hurts them both on a good day, and when they’re like this- Dean always gets this wounded little boy look in his eyes and John’s left aching and guilty, hating himself for causing it. Hating that he still can’t stop himself from thinking about their similarities; about how much he looks like her. How soft he is, just like her.

How much he loves Dean. Just like he loved her.

He shoves those thoughts to back of his mind and focuses instead on Dean, leaning in for another kiss- shorter, this time, but deeper, letting himself get a proper taste before he moves again, hands finding Dean’s hips. Even after a lifetime of hunting, he’s still soft here, and John doesn’t try to hide how much he loves it- slides his hands up Dean’s sides, slow and reverent, dips his thumbs into the divots at his hipbones, drinking in all the bare skin laid before him. Dean trembles, just a little bit, but he’s still holding on tight and John knows that means he’s okay.

There are scars here, too. Some old, some new- some that are still pink and shiny, freshly healed over. Those are the ones that John traces with his fingertips, marvelling all over again that Dean is even still alive. He knows when to count his blessings, and Dean’s continued presence at his side is the biggest of them all.

He leans down to press his lips to one of the fresh scars, left by a shapeshifter. Lingers there for a long few seconds and remembers stitching it up, Dean’s silence through the whole ordeal as he clenched his fists and dug little half-moon cuts into the palms of his hands. John had kissed those better, too. Mumbles against Dean’s skin, now. “Need to be more careful.”

Dean doesn’t answer him besides to exhale, slow and soft. John feels it where he’s still got his hands on the curve of Dean’s waist and he takes a moment to bask in the unfaltering trust he sees in Dean’s state of ease. His eyes are half-lidded, now, still sleepy in the early hour, like he could drift right off, just like that, John’s presence be damned. It’s endearing, and John moves to rest his hand over his boy’s heart, just watching him for a moment.

The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he hasn’t known how to say them since Mary died. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t wish Dean could hear them.

Instead of lingering on that thought, John leans in to kiss Dean again, and he presses close, too. Lets one of his hands start to head south and relishes in the little gasp against his lips when he finds the warm weight of Dean’s cock through his pyjama pants, already half-hard and not needing much encouragement to fill out completely. He gives an approving hum and doesn’t waste any time before starting to move his hand, easy and slow, letting the added friction from the fabric work to his advantage.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to start moving with him, meeting him halfway as he presses his hips up in search of more contact, and John’s happy to oblige. He doesn’t lose focus upstairs, either, and once their lips part- messier, now, leaving them both panting, Dean’s lips pink and spit-slicked- he’s still moving, kissing Dean’s jaw, his neck, leaving little marks behind because it doesn’t matter if anybody sees. Dean’s beautifully responsive, arching up against him, little gasps and moans slipping free and just pushing him to continue.

“There you go,” John breathes out, and he’s hard, too. Knows that Dean would gladly offer his hand or his mouth or his ass, but that’s not what John wants right now; this isn’t about him, and he shoves his own pleasure to the back of his mind because that’s not what he’s here for.

“Just like that, sweetheart.”

He’s here to make sure that the beautiful boy underneath him understands just how important he is. Just how much he matters.

Just how much he’s loved.

It’s easy to tell when Dean’s getting close because his grip goes white-knuckled tight and the noises he makes get a little needier. He pulls John closer, even, leans in until their lips meet, sloppy and desperate, and John doesn’t hesitate to give him what he wants, taking a moment to get his hand inside Dean’s pants for those last few strokes as they kiss. It’s worth the effort when he gets to feel Dean come, hot and messy between his fingers, and his breathing catches, too, moaning right into John’s mouth and _fuck_ , that’s nearly enough to set him off. Instead, he just keeps moving his hand, slower as the seconds tick by and he milks every bit of pleasure out of his boy, doesn’t stop until he tastes the first little whimper of oversensitivity and carefully pulls his hand away.

Dean’s still recovering, but John doesn’t give him much space. Takes the chance to break what’s left of their kiss and focus his attention on the rest of Dean’s body, lips travelling southwards as he peppers the boy’s skin with tiny kisses, feeling the tension and energy slowly seep out of Dean’s muscles as he goes. He’s obviously exhausted, and they’ve got a day of driving ahead of them, but John doesn’t let it concern him now, all of his attention on soothing his beautiful boy back to sleep.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says very quietly, because it’s the kind of reassurance that Dean needs these days, and as his grip goes slack and he settles deeper into the bed, John wants to give it to him. He always seems so young like this. “Right here, kiddo. No matter what.”

He’s met with silence, and within a few minutes, Dean’s breathing goes soft and even, eyes closed as John finishes his quiet brand of worship. He doesn’t even bother getting out of bed, wiping his hand on a far corner of the sheets before settling down alongside his son, gentle in the way he pulls Dean right into his arms, a small bit of indulgence. He closes his eyes on that image and ignores his hard-on, resting against Dean’s thigh now, but far from the focus of his attention.

He’s not tired, but he closes his eyes and listens to Dean’s breathing. He thinks about how neither of them have anything left but this, and he doesn’t think about how different things would be if that weren’t true.

He doesn’t think about how maybe, if the desperate ache in his chest when he looks at Dean is anything to judge by, things wouldn’t be any different at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
